


the evening of the day

by openhearts



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Episode: s05e24 Both Sides Now, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-22
Packaged: 2018-10-09 08:17:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10407831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openhearts/pseuds/openhearts
Summary: Originally posted at Porn Battle VIII





	

She’s out of breath. 

One foot forward, one hand on the door frame. Her skirt shifts softly around her knees, barely a sensation to hold on to, to remind herself of if she remembers what she’s doing. 

“Who told you?” he asks.

He’s got a hand on the other side of the doorframe too, and they’re on different sides of a funhouse mirror. 

It’s light on his side. Behind him lamps are on in too many rooms, the tv’s on and muted, tossing shapes of light without aim, and music plays. Something modern-ish and obscure. It doesn’t matter, just that it’s there. He’s barefoot and without his cane. His eyes aren’t easy in his skull.

“Wilson,” she answers. 

It’s dark on her side. Little bowls of light under the streetlamp and the porch light. It’s too cold for no sleeves and she doesn’t have any, but she came straight from the rehearsal. Night pulls like a curtain behind her. Deep, blank, saying there’s nothing behind it. A delicate chain with some small bauble on it threads over her collarbone.

He’ll look at her for a moment before flicking away.

“When do you leave?” she leans closer, closer to catch his eyes again. She can’t tell without his eyes what’s really going on.

“Tomorrow.”

He lets her look. He turns and goes inside.

She follows. 

She’s in now. She watches carefully her fingers turn the deadbolt. Her shoes hurt; she steps out of them. The bracelet weighs too cold and heavy; she takes it off too and hangs it on the doorknob. Now she’s still, hands dead weight at her sides. 

It’s the same place it’s been. Objects haven’t taken on any different meanings. It’s a museum of a place, and now feels just as empty around the items. She runs her hands over things as she passes them; puzzles, tools, artifacts, dead and ephemeral under her fingers. 

She stands again in a doorway – now to the bedroom where a suitcase lays open and haunting. 

His back is to her and he’s still. He seems to be staring quietly at a wall.

She doesn’t wait anymore. 

She stands behind him a foot away. He’s a breathing mountain. His head ducks and turns, his mouth works dryly a word. She touches his wrist. She touches his sleeve. She touches the curving plane of his back with fingertips. Her hand comes away. They breathe for a moment. Tears well in her eyes.

He half turns and she half steps. He falls over her; suffocates and buries. His head lies deep on her shoulder, his arms hang heavy over her arms; more weight on her shoulders. They shift and shuffle, parting when her knees hit the bed and they sit. 

He presses big hands clumsily over her arms, face, and throat. She closes her eyes into the touches, lets salt water and mascara smear where they may. Her hands curl into clumps in his shirt, nails pressing points. He almost comforts her, forehead set into his chest. He musses her hair without meaning to.

Breath moves heavy and too full. Her eyes feel swollen. He’s cold suddenly; she’s too warm and feels sweat climbing low on her back. Sentences run haphazard around him but he can’t catch one to make fit. 

When the pause finishes she doesn’t kiss him. She crawls silently into his lap. Her fingers hold still and light behind his neck. His back rests against the headboard, hands numb on her ribs. The music from the living room fuzzes away with the rustling of his hands over her thighs. She reaches underneath and pulls her panties away with a snap. He’s silently fingering the charm hanging from her neck. He presses a palm high over her breast. His fingertips still reach to her shoulder. She shifts closer, settles over him, half-ready through the striped cotton pants.

There’s a little sound caught in the back of her throat, she looks away around the room and he buries his eyes in the dip above her collarbone. Her movements against him are small and effective and soon he pushes the pants away and brings his hands up to cradle her neck like she does his.

It’s happening.

It hurts. There’s a silent thunderous weight pressing back on both their chests. Breath won’t hold for long, but blood still moves. Arms are a confusion, where to rest, how tight to hold. But she moves and it works. She sweats and the mattress makes little noises. Eventually he can feel his hands again, and they’re warm on her skin. He touches her face, lets the curve of her cheek mold his fingers.

She looks at him, and he looks back. They hold through the movement. The end is quiet and overwhelming. They don’t look away.

She’s crying again. She holds his head to her heart. His throat strangles itself against more words. A weak sound slips out in between beats.

She crawls away and sits with her feet hanging over the edge of the bed, not touching the floor. He redresses and then his hands just fall to rest on the mattress ineffectual. Her skin stings; now she’s cold and he’s overheated. Her blue dress and his reddened skin.

When they stand at the door he touches her arm. She rests a hand on his chest. He looks at her, and she looks back.


End file.
